


Small Blessings

by anneapocalypse



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Followers of the Apocalypse, Freeside
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:26:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Followers idealist and an NCR pragmatist walk into Freeside...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic is on hiatus.** I still hope to finish it someday but I'm not writing for Fallout right now and given the current fandom climate I don't know when I'll be back. I'm sorry.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Given that this is a story about the Followers in Freeside, substance abuse and addiction will be a pretty frequent mention, as well as injury, illness, violence, and medical talk in general.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

_Summer_

The tower room looks like a luxury until you try sleeping there in the dead of August. The price of privacy is a space that stays stuffy and sweltering while the rest of the camp cools in the desert night. But if the sturdy wooden walls trap the heat, they also muffle the night sounds of Freeside. Though when Julie thinks of what they keep out, it’s not without a quiet pang of guilt. Who’s she to sleep in peace?

Or she should be sleeping. Restlessness keeps her at her desk in the green glow of her computer, the only light in the room, as she scrolls through the week’s numbers. Then, switching to another file, Julie enters:

Traveler donated 5 stimpaks, 2 doses fixer.  
Bill stopped by. Sober. Seems all right.  
Arcade - idea for improving pain salve.

"Thank Heavenly Father for small blessings," her mother used to say. Julie’s not so sure about the whole Heavenly Father business, but the small blessings she can get behind. And the thankfulness bit. Blessings in Freeside don't come in anything but the small variety.

It’s helpful to count them. Too easy to count only the curses. Two or three dead in a streetfight makes how many this week? How many staggering junkies today, against how many doses of Fixer? How many homeless against how many beds?

Heartaches by the number, as they say.

Julie saves the file and logs off.

The old metal chair is a little unsteady on its base, and lists to the side as she stands. She rolls her shoulders with a double _pop_ under the threadbare fabric of her shirt, dampened against her back, a few buttons undone in the front. Probably time she tried again to get some sleep.

Just then she hears the sound of the door opening downstairs, an anxious voice, and the familiar shuffle of an incapacitated patient being carried in.

 

The surgery in the lower level of the tower is reserved for critical patients—which aren’t, of course, such a rare occurrence. There will always be this surge of adrenaline, even for the most seasoned doctor, but after more than a decade, even the rush feels habitual as Julie thumps down the stairs in hastily-tied boots.

Mona is helping a man lift his battered companion onto the table. Too much blood on his clothes to tell exactly what his injuries are. Mona bends down to check his airway. “Breathing. Shallowly. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Julie snatches up a pair of scissors and begins cutting his clothes away. "Couldn’t sleep. Multiple contusions, abrasions. Could be internal bleeding. Street fight?"

The friend, a dark-skinned man in a long leather vest—well-dressed for Freeside, Julie notes somewhere is the back of her mind, could be a mercenary—shakes  his head grimly . "I didn't see. Found him like this. Must've been left for dead." He’s concerned, she can hear that in his voice—but calm. Not panicked. Accustomed to violence. Merc.

Mona buckles a super stim around the patient’s thigh. "This will help stabilize him." At the needle's prick, the man groans on the table. A good sign. "Has he been conscious since you found him?" Julie asks.

The other man shakes his head. "No. He’s been groaning like that, though."

There’s a lot of bruising and swelling. Probably a few broken ribs. No stab wounds, no bullet wounds—he’s been beaten. Most of the blood looks to be from his nose (broken) and mouth (lip split, a few teeth knocked loose). From the color of the bruises he lay a while before he was found.

His skin's cool—cooler than it should be even if he lay on the pavement all night. Shock. The super stim will help, but the man’s going to need fluids. Back in California, they had IVs. Here, you can only hope they wake up long enough to swallow some water mixed with agave syrup.

Mona’s gaze meet Julie’s with a slight nod as she pops a syringe of Med-X out of its sterile sleeve and injects the patient in the arm.

 

“Is he going to be all right?”

The friend fixes Julie with a sober, matter-of-fact stare as they come out of the surgery. The barest edge of dawn is beginning to creep over the walls of the Fort—no color yet, just a softening of the dark.

“It’s early to say,” Julie answers honestly. The patient is as stable as he can be, for the moment. “We’ll let you know of any change.”

The man nods. “If there’s nothing I can do for him here, I should go inform my CO. She’ll want to see him. And pay you for your services.”

“You’re military.” Julie pauses. “I didn’t realize.”

The man eyes her guardedly. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no, of course not.” Certainly raises some questions, but Julie keeps those to herself.

The man nods, studies her for another uncomfortable moment, and then turns to leave without a word.

 

The NCR has never had much of a presence in Freeside—not a military presence, that is. There are the squatters, of course, more of them every year and in recent months more than ever.

Is that why they’re sending in troops?

Julie leans her back against the wall for a moment, listening. Freeside at night sounds about like Freeside during the day—footsteps, voices murmuring or shouting, the screeching of the metal gates, and sometimes the staccato of gunfire that still, after years here, makes every muscle in Julie’s body tense—only with the added cacophony of crickets and cicadas trilling in the surrounding desert. In numbers and at a reasonable distance, crickets are pleasant enough. They have a habit, though, of crawling into tents and towers by ones and twos. Nothing like a lone cricket chirping in the wall next to your ear to keep you awake all night.

For the NCR to occupy Freeside would be... a mixed blessing.

Julie pushes off the wall and begins a circuit. Across the camp, at the supply tent, Raya’s turning away a shuffling addict trying to sneak an extra dose of fixer. Julie pauses at the sound of low voices in one of the back tents, and makes out the murmur of Arcade _I’m just not a people-person, Julie_ Gannon quietly reassuring an orphaned nine-year-old refugee that there is no one coming to hurt him and nothing under his bed.

Julie smiles to herself.

It’s nearly six, when the night doctors and the night guards pack it in, and the day shifters come on duty. Ordinarily Julie tries to be up during the day—it just makes sense, her being the administrator—but sometimes her day gets turned around on her. Sometimes she stays up later than she should, running numbers and updating her reports. Sometimes there’s a critical in the dead hours of morning so it’s just as well she was up.

She should go to bed. Try to get in a few hours of sleep.

Julie moves back toward the western tower.

Inside, Mona glances up from the chair where she’s taking a breather, legs stretched out in front of her, hands resting in the pockets of her white coat. “I stimmed him again. Still hasn’t regained consciousness.”

“If you want to crash, I can keep an eye on him.”

Mona shakes her head, pushing her dark hair back behind her ears. The circles beneath her dark eyes are heavy. “Shift change in fifteen anyway. I’ll have Miguel take over.”

Julie nods. “Make sure you get some rest.”

“Sure.” Mona arches her eyebrows at Julie. “You too.”

Julie takes the stairs slowly, and has barely set foot on the top floor when she hears the knock at the door below, a low-voiced exchange, and then—

“Julie?” It’s Arcade.

“Yes?”

“There’s someone here who wants to see you—an NCR officer.”

Julie takes the steps down quicker.

“Sorry,” Arcade adds, when she reaches the bottom. “I know you were just about to sleep, but she asked for you specifically.”

“It’s fine.”

 

“Major Elizabeth Kieran, NCR Supply Corps.” Like the patient and his friend, the Major isn’t in uniform. She’s wearing a black leather coat over square, muscular shoulders. Gray eyes, light brown hair cut in a standard no-nonsense bob, but her voice is disarmingly soft. “One of my men was brought here with injuries.”

“I’ll take you to him.” The Major followers her to the surgery. Mona and Miguel are just switching places as Julie opens the door. “This is Major Kieran of the NCR,” Julie says, and the other two doctors exchange a brief look. “She’s here to see him.” She doesn’t know the patient’s name—the friend never said. “Any changes?”

“His breathing’s improved,” Mona replies. “I think he’s stable enough to move to a tent, but he should stay with us until he regains consciousness.”

The Major nods. “He’s going to pull through?”

“His odds are good,” Mona says.

“I’ll send someone back to check on him tomorrow, then. When he’s able to travel, we’ll have him transferred back to McCarran. Thank you for your aid, Doctor,” the Major says, a bit brusquely. “Let me pay you for your services.” She reaches for the small leather satchel slung over her shoulder. As she counts out caps, Julie asks, cautiously, “Are you stationed in Freeside?”

“Yes.” The Major’s tone is downright short this time, and it’s clear no more information will be forthcoming. “Thank you again, Doctor... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Julie Farkas.”

“Thank you, Doctor Farkas.” The Major casts one last look at the patient on the surgery table, and Julie sees her eyes soften with concern, but she rights herself and snaps her satchel shut, and turns to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

_Fall_

Julie doesn’t have nightmares often.

But when she does, there isn’t much to them. No visuals, just formless dark, and out of it, her name called, over and over. _Julie. Julie. Julie._ Each time in a voice that needles her with familiarity before receding into the black, before she can pin a name to the cry.

She wakes in a sweat, staring at the wall beside her bed.

As her awareness returns, she rolls shakily onto her back. It’s not black in the room, not really. Chinks in the tower roof let pale slivers of moonlight through. Faintly, with her eyes adjusted to the dark, she can make out the outline of her desk, her computer terminal, the coffee machine. She is aware of where the walls are, whether from vision or memory, it doesn’t matter. The dark has form. And there are no voices, only faint sounds from beyond the walls.

Julie sits up and rolls out of bed. The wooden floor’s warm under her feet. She leaves her doctor’s coat—in the early days it seemed so important to never be seen without it, always to be professional—but buttons up her shirt and slips her feet into her unlaced boots. Never a good idea to run around barefoot even inside the tower; you never know where a nail’s decided to work its way out of the floorboards, and tetanus shots don't come cheap. Julie tucks the laces in and takes the stairs carefully in the dark.

The night’s cool is a welcome relief. Miguel’s just coming out of the nearest tent as she slips out the door, and he nods to her as they pass. One of the guards, June, likes to call them Hair Twins. Miguel’s short ridge of black hair doesn’t bear much resemblance to Julie’s tall spikes, but they’re each a tribute to their Founder, in their own way. June wouldn’t know that, of course, or care if she did. The camp’s guards are hired locals, not Followers—though Raya’s been making noises like she might want to join.

Julie still feels off, uneasy, fingers twitchy, heart rate still up. A walk around the courtyard will help.  With each tent, she passes, she reassures herself. Counterclockwise from the northeast corner. Urgent care tent, the one Miguel’s just ducked back into—covered. Secondary care tent—occupied by Irena speaking quietly with two young women, one of them visibly pregnant. Supply tent—guarded by Tony. Research tent—unoccupied, no Bunsen burners left running. Bunk tent—

Wait.

Julie pauses in her circuit, trying to put her finger on what’s wrong.

_Oh._

She moves between the two tents toward the eastern tower, the only place in the Fort that locks up with any kind of reliability, and which houses extra supplies—not that they have much in the way of extra these days—emergency water rations, and the generators.

It’s the lighting that’s off—all the lights in the camp have dimmed, and if she hadn’t been disoriented from the dream, she’d have noticed it immediately. Irena and Miguel surely noticed, but they’re both busy with patients, and the guards can’t leave their posts, especially at night, so...

The steady clicking rumble of the generators, quieter than it should be, tells her what she needs to know. Two generators power the Fort’s interior and exterior lights, with a third they keep for backup. It doesn’t sound like much, a few lightbulbs, but the surgery in the windowless tower would be useless without lighting. The lights mounted on each tower kick on at dusk and turn off a little after dawn. And a single floodlight blazes over the outside of the Fort’s door. A little light on the street does a lot to keep trouble away from their doorstep. Not completely, but it helps.

Julie kneels beside the generators, stacked one on top of the other. Sure enough, the bottom one’s gone dead. She checks the fuel cells—still half full—then flips the power switch off and on again, just to be sure. Nothing. Disconnecting the wires from the dead generator, Julie hooks up the backup, and the single bulb over her head brightens.

They’ll have to get that generator fixed as soon as possible. Maybe Bill Ronte can take a look at it; he’s remarkably handy with just about anything mechanical. She’ll send someone out to find him in the morning. It’s been a while since he’s been by the camp; hopefully he’s doing all right. He’ll be glad to have the work—they can pay him in food and clean water, at least, if not in caps.

Clean water. That reminds her—she should send someone to the pump in the morning, to fill a few more barrels.  

 

“Arcade, got a moment?”

“No, the cacti are positively _clamoring_ for my attention. It’s all I can do to keep them entertained.”

“You’re funny,” Julie says drily. “Too bad we can’t fill our water barrels from the well of your bottomless wit.”

“Oh, _harsh_.” The towering doctor grins. “What can I do for you, Julie?”

“Water run. Grab Tony or June to go with you.”

“Can do. How many barrels?”

“Two should do. I’ll be removing stitches.”

“A patient actually returns for their recommended follow-up care?”

“I know. It’s a minor miracle.” Julie breaks a smile in spite of herself, and Arcade returns it before he turns to go.

 

The stitches in question are in the side of a very lucky patient, having closed a wound just an inch or two away from being lethal. The shaggy-haired, tattooed young woman drums her fingers boredly against the surgery table as Julie carefully snips the threads, drawing them out with forceps and dropping them in a steel tray.

She hesitates a moment before reaching for the bottle of grain alcohol and a clean square of gauze. The wound’s closed up well, and chances are it will be fine. . . and their supplies are always tight, but especially right now, when one of the caravans they’ve been trading with is late. Lady Jane used to make a fairly reliable circuit, but by Julie’s calendar she should’ve been by a week ago, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of her. They really need a more regular supplier anyway—something with a solid bulk discount to cut their costs. They’ve tried with the Crimson Caravan, multiple times since they settled at the Old Mormon Fort six years ago, but the Crimson refuses to cut them a deal. Keep saying the Followers don’t order in large enough quantities, which is a load of brahmin shit, in Julie’s opinion. Probably has more to do with the Crimson’s ties to the NCR, and the Republic’s strained relationship with the Followers.

Still, it’s not worth endangering a patient. Not one in whom they’ve already invested substantial time and resources—yes, that’s cold, but Julie’s mind can’t help going to the numbers. She presses the gauze to the neck of the bottle, tips it to moisten, and swabs the whole area. “Just keep it as clean as you can for another week or so, and try not to get stabbed again, all right?”

The young woman snickers and tosses her dark hair out of her eyes. “Thanks for the tip, Doc.” She fishes a cigarette out of the pocket of her ragged vest. Julie jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Not in the camp. Outside.”

Emerging from the tent, she catches sight of Arcade and June returning, each with a yellow plastic water barrel swinging at their side—both clearly empty. Julie’s stomach drops. The pump—if it’s broken down that’ll be no good at all. Did she send someone to find Bill yet? Of course not, who would she have sent—

“There was a King at the pump,” June calls, catching Julie’s eye. “They’re charging caps for water.”

The sinking feeling in her stomach twists itself into a knot of anger. Charging for water from the pump the Followers installed. Julie’s had a cordial relationship with the King—his gang rose to power in Freeside around the same time the Followers moved in—and they’ve always more or less let each other be, appreciating each other’s work even when they disagree on the details. But this—this isn’t good. And it feels like a slap in the face, his people taking over something her people built, and profiting from it to boot.

Arcade’s eyeing her. “Do you want me to go talk to the King?”

“No,” Julie says, a little forcefully. “I’ll talk to him myself.”

 

She’s only been inside the School a few times, but it always makes her more than a little uncomfortable. She’s thoroughly aware how out of place she is, how _other_ , in this boys' club full of leather jackets and slicked-back hair and maleness. It’s not that she’s intimidated—if anything, it might be the other way around, the way the younger Kings eye her spiked hair and her doctor’s coat and give her a wide berth. She’s never been harassed; the King wouldn’t stand for that. Even Pacer just grunts and ushers her through the door with a surly jerk of his head. But something about her and the Kings feels like oil and water.

Still, the King himself greets her with a warm smile when she walks into the dance hall. He’s seated close to the stage where a couple of younger Kings in white t-shirts and glossy pompadours are practicing dance moves to a pre-war song from the jukebox.  “Well now, look who it is. You got a serious look on your face, Doctor. What can the King do for you today?”

“The water pump,” Julie says. “The one Bill Ronte installed. I’m told some of your boys are charging people money to use it.”

The King regards her seriously. “I’m catchin’ on fast. And my boys tried to charge your people for water, did they?”

“Yes, and I’m sure you realize we can’t afford it.” Julie looks the King dead in the eye. “We’re barely keeping our medical supplies stocked as it is. Without access to clean water, our work will grind to a halt.”

“All right, okay, you win.” The King’s mouth quirks up in a lopsided smile again, and he scratches Rex’s ears. “I’ll make sure and let my Tapper know your people can fill up for free. I got no interest in cripplin’ your efforts, Julie. You ‘n’ your people do a whole lotta good for Freeside.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” It’s the truth, though she still feels there’s more to be said. The King arches an eyebrow. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“Why charge for water at all?” Julie asks.

The King purses his lips, nods thoughtfully. “Well, it weren’t just because. I’m sure you’ve noticed all the NCR folk floodin’ in lately—them and their soldier boys. Don’t think we don’t appreciate what you and your people done, gettin’ that pump workin’. Gotta have some way to regulate usage, though—otherwise the NCR’ll march in and shut it right down.”

Julie hesitates a moment. “So you’ve noticed there’s a military presence in Freeside, now.”

“Hard to miss.” The King’s mouth twists into a pensive shape. “Between you and me... I hear rumors they’re lookin’ to take over Vegas. Hope it ain’t so.”

Julie nods slowly.

“Oh, Julie…” The King glances down at Rex, then back up to her. “Y’don’t know... I mean y’haven’t heard of... anything, or anyone who...”

Julie drops to one knee to scratch Rex’s ears. His tail flaps eagerly back and forth against a leg of the King’s chair. “I’m really sorry,” Julie answers earnestly. “But the Followers haven’t made any breakthroughs in cybernetics in the past month.” She straightens again. “I wish I could offer you more, I really do.”

The King nods. There’s a genuine sorrow in his dark eyes as they drop again to Rex, who rests his chin on the King’s knee with a friendly whine. The King strokes the dog’s head. “Well. I ‘preciate the thought, anyway.”

“I should get back,” Julie says, feeling suddenly more awkward than before. “Thank you again.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s bothering her that she can’t remember the last time she saw Bill. Bothering her quite a lot, actually. For a while he was stopping in regularly, just to check in, and now that she’s thinking about it, Julie’s pretty sure his visits stopped abruptly. What she can’t remember is how long ago.

Bill came out from California years ago like so many other skilled workers, hoping to find a good job in the fabled city of Vegas. Like most others who find their way to Freeside, Bill’s hopes didn’t quite pan out. He’s got no family, no connections in this area except to the Followers, for helping out with the pump. Folks like him slip through the cracks so easily, with nobody to miss them when they’re gone.

What does it say about _her_ , after all, that she notices he’s missing now when she needs his skills?

“Hey. You in charge here?”

The newcomer’s wiry and sharp-eyed, with a beard too neatly groomed for outer Vegas. Slacks and plaid shirt too clean. No visible injuries, a gleaming pistol at his hip. Full pack on his back, too. It’s probably too much to hope he’s brought donations, though every once in a while they do get them, whether from simple do-gooders or well-to-do NCR ranchers looking for tax write-offs. “Yes. Can I help you?”

“Certainly hope so.” Julie can’t quite pick out a regional accent, but the quick diction and crisp speech say city, maybe. “You sell medical supplies?”

He doesn’t blink too hard at her prices, just nods and taps the toe of his cowboy boot as she goes into the lock-up for a few Rad-Aways and stims.

“This all you got?”

“All we can spare,” Julie replies. “Meds are tight at the moment. We’re waiting for a resupply.” And if she could count on it coming soon, she’d sell him twice this, considering what he’s paying. But there’s no telling when she’ll be by, and even if there was, no amount of caps in the hand will keep a person alive when they’re bleeding out.

“Lot of caravans held up these days,” the stranger remarks as he counts out his caps. “Hope it’s not that down and out peddler in the fancy dress you’re waiting on.”

“Fancy dress—” Surely not, there are plenty of caravans come out from California, but that description. “You wouldn’t mean Jane Fairfield—”

“Oh yes. The ‘Lady’ herself.” The man scoops up the handful of syringes and med bags, stuffing them into his pack hurriedly like he might be asked to give them back. “Ran across her by the North Gate. Lost her whole load to raiders. Brahmin and all.”

So that’s it. No resupply coming.

The knot in Julie's stomach tightens.

For all he seems to be in such a hurry to get his supplies, the stranger doesn’t take off like she figured he would. What does she know about the Strip, he wants to know. A gambler, then. He’ll be back, broker and dirtier, if he makes it in at all. That’s how it goes.

“I know it’s got a lot of bright lights,” Julie says, eyeing the urgent care tent, “and the money doesn’t leave.”

“And Mr. House?”

“He doesn’t leave, either.”

She’s already turning to cross the courtyard, and the stranger keeps pace beside her with an easy swagger. “Any work to be had in Freeside?”

Julie slows her pace slightly. “There’s always something needing done. What kind of work are you looking for?”

“The paying kind,” the stranger says shortly.

Paying work in Freeside. Julie’s mind runs over the options, not that they ever change. Chem pusher, gun runner, prostitute, thug. It’s the biggest obstacle to rehabilitation of any kind for Freeside’s many homeless and addicts. No honest work to be had. Get out of Freeside, is the best advice Julie can give them.

She thinks again of Bill.

“The Followers have some things that need doing,” Julie offers. “We can’t pay you, but we could offer you a discount on our services…”

The gambler shakes his head. “Not what I’m after. Thanks anyway.”

He falls back at last as she ducks into the tent.

It’s another hour or so before she has a chance to get out. The sun’s high, beating down on the camp with a brightness that’s dizzying if you look up too fast. Heat billows up from the cracked and crumbling asphalt in waves as Julie steps away, leaving Mona in charge and crossing her fingers something doesn't blow up while she's gone. Something else, that is. But they need that generator fixed, and Bill's the man to do it.

Like most of the squatters Bill doesn't have a home, per se. He floats between the camps at the edge of town and the Atomic Wrangler.

The Wrangler's the last place Julie wants to set foot. The discomfort she feels walking into the King's School is nothing compared to the stinking, smothering den of iniquity that is Freeside's only bar and casino. The light's dim and shadowy, the odor of smoke and liquor permeates every inch of the building, but it's the way people look at her that really makes Julie's skin crawl. Feels like the eye of every patron swivels to the door when she walks in.

In the Followers' camp nothing about Julie draws stares, not even the spikes in her hair, though they do make her easier to pick out of the crowd—but at the Followers' camp, that's all right. In the dim light of the Wrangler it's everything else about her that's conspicuous, starting with her white doctor's coat. She can feel the eyes of both Garret twins behind the counter, see the smirks starting on their faces, wondering what she, Doctor Farkas of the Followers, could possibly be doing here. She doesn't drink, or gamble, and if she had the time for companionship the Wrangler sure isn't where she'd be looking for it.

With any luck, she won't have to go in there to find Bill.

The squatter camps occupy the outer edges of Freeside, and aren't much to look at—just clusters of people circled around fires on makeshift bedding. Squatters themselves don't always look like squatters. If they haven't been stuck in Freeside long they might still have nice clothes, they might still be clean and have some caps to spend. The ones who've been here the longest are the most ragged, the most addicted, and the most desperate. And still, somehow, after gambling away their last caps in Freeside and selling the clothes off their backs for food, drink, and chems, somehow they still think the Strip can bring it all back for them. Julie's seen people run madly for the gate, throw themselves at it and try to climb over, only to be gunned down by the robots before they've got both feet off the ground.

The false promise of easy riches does terrible things to people.

The squatters aren't the only ones trying to get into Strip, of course, but the locals are, on a whole, less frantic about it. It's not that they're less desperate, it's just that they're more resigned. They've adjusted to life on the outside; those hotel towers rising over the impenetrable fencing are like a dream, glittering against the night sky but never to be touched. Most locals have learned to survive instead by preying on the optimism and naivete of the travelers always pouring in.

There's the rub, as her mother would say. If it weren't for the steady stream of NCR citizens always looking to make it big in Vegas, Freeside would lose most of its business. Locals might still crowd the Wrangler at night, but where would they make all those caps to blow on liquor and chems and the slot machines? Who would buy guns from Mick and Ralph, laser weapons from the Van Graffs that with a sickening hiss and crackle can reduce a person to a pile of ash in the street.

A man in a leather vest leers at Julie as she passes Mick and Ralph's. Something about him seems familiar but Julie doesn't linger long enough to give him a chance to accost her. She ducks between the crumbling concrete walls of a nearby building. Bill lives here—to use the term "live" loosely. The best housing in Freeside—that is to say, the buildings with most of their walls intact—are tightly occupied by locals who don't take kindly to new residents. Attempts to squat anywhere nearby are usually met with violence. Bill and Jacob and other NCR settlers have to make do with the camps and the crumbling buildings in the worst parts of Freeside. Bill can usually be found here.

He's here all right, and Julie's stomach sinks at the sight of him slumped against a wall, eyes glassy. Relapse is always possible. Doesn't make it any less discouraging to see. Bill's deep in it, too. Must've fallen off not long after they last saw him.

"Bill?" Julie says quietly, approaching him.

Bill licks his lips, and looks up at Julie. God, he just breaks her heart. He's the sweetest, most earnest, hardworking man when he's sober. The liquor, though, it just takes him apart.

"Oh, Julie..." There's a strain in his voice, a feeble attempt to cover the slur of alcohol. An attempt that knows exactly how useless it is. He's humiliated, Julie can see that, and it pains her to be the one causing it. If there was any other way, she'd take it. But there isn't.

"How are you doing, Bill?" Julie asks, cautiously. Bill isn't the type to get defensive, never mind violent, but you just never know with addicts. Sometimes people will act unpredictably.

"Oh, I'm. I'm fine. I'm fine, Julie. Don't have to worry about me." Dark circles hang under his eyes, sweat pools in the creases of his skin and whole face sags with shame.

“We haven’t seen you around lately, Bill,” Julie tries. “Hoped you might come see us again.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s—that’s kind of you, Julie,” Bill stammers, “I—but I can’t, I just, I need to stay here, I can’t go today. Tomorrow, okay, or—or a couple days, I’ll come by…” He’s babbling, the words running together desperately. “You sh-should go, you shouldn’t be all-all the way out here, I’ll be, be fine, please…”

She doesn’t belong out here, that much is true. She belongs back behind the solid walls of the Fort, where right now the patients are likely piling up without her, Arcade running out from his research tent to help, disclaiming loudly _I’m just a researcher… and not a very good one at that!_

“I’m here as your friend, Bill.” A friend who needs you.

Bill shakes his head from side to side. “Julie, please… I'm sorry, please go…”

Someone will forget to sterilize a needle, they’ll run out of Med-X, tents will collapse, riots will start, the Fort will burn to the ground.

Julie sighs, and sits down in the rubble beside Bill.

He stares at her.

“You’re my friend,” Julie says, “and you’re a friend to the Followers, so I’m going to be honest with you, all right? You are _important_ , Bill. Freeside needs you.”

Bill’s eyes dart from her to the open doorway. “Julie, please…” His hands are shaking. From the look of it he's suffering some withdrawal. He'll be hurting soon, if he doesn't have the caps to buy more liquor.

If she can just get him back to the camp…

“This isn’t where _you_ belong, Bill. You’re worth too much to throw your life away like this.”

His face crumples, and he covers his face with his grimy hands. At a distance, something glass breaks, and someone shouts, cutting off abruptly. “Oh, Julie. I’ve—I’ve been… I dunno how long I’ve been like this, I lose track… dunno when I ate, I couldn’t… had to go down by the station. Bless her. Oh Julie. I’ve really screwed things up.”

It’s painful, seeing him this way, and yet that admission—there’s hope for him, yet. “It’s not too late. You can—”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t, can’t stop now, I can’t do it.” He shakes his head again, mumbling into his palms. “Feel like I’m gonna die. Take a load of detox chems to fix it, and you can’t, c-can’t waste ‘em on me. Save ‘em for s-somebody else.”

Should’ve slipped a shot of Fixer into her pocket on the way out. Damn her optimism.

“We can help you, Bill,” Julie says, quietly. “You’re worth it to us. But you have to decide you’re worth it to yourself.”

She stands.

“I’ll come back. Think about what I said, okay?”

He avoids her eyes.

The Old Mormon Fort is not on fire. There is, however, a bottleneck of locals at the gate. No apparent injuries, Julie notes. Mona is talking to them, hands animated in explanation. "—don't have the supplies to offer food handouts, I'm sorry—" One of the crowd has a knife in his belt, and June has her eyes narrowed, hand on her shotgun. But the two at the head of the pack exchange a look, one shakes her head, and they shuffle away out the gate. June follows at their heels, rolling the gate shut behind them. She shakes her head at Julie. "Dunno what got into them. We're not some kinda soup kitchen."

"If only," Julie says, and June snorts, tossing her strawberry blonde hair, and ambles back to her post.

"Nobody can catch a break in this town, can they?"

Julie starts. "Oh—you're still here."

The gambler's leaning against a tent post, arms crossed, sharp eyes on Julie.

Julie clears her throat loudly. "We do what we can."

"Oh, no doubt." The man pushes lazily off the post, striding across the camp. "Still. Can't get food if you're a local, can't get water if you're an out-of-towner. Seems like nobody can catch a break." He cracks an inscrutable smile. "'Cept maybe those Garrets across town."

“Was there something more you needed?” Julie says pointedly.

“Don’t let me keep you from whatever you’re doing.”

Julie doesn’t.

Only he doesn’t leave. He’s by the front gate talking to Beatrix when she walks by perhaps twenty minutes later. Chatting up Arcade when she goes back to the lock-up for a shot of Fixer. There’s an animation to his voice, something that was lacking during their earlier interactions. Ah. Maybe not so unfriendly.

Julie can't make out the man's words, but hearing Arcade laugh and toss back a response she can't quite suppress a smile. A little flirtation won’t hurt the man. Wouldn’t hurt her, for that matter, if she had any idea how to go about it.

She shakes her head, and turns the syringe over in her pocket.

Wait.

“What was that you said about water?”

The gambler raises an eyebrow. “Hmm?” Behind him, Arcade eyes her quizzically.

“What you said earlier—about getting water.”

“Oh, that greased-up tapper fellow at the pump. Charges double for NCR. FIgured you knew.”

Julie lets her breath out slowly.

The stranger eyes her shrewdly. “Guess you didn’t.”

Double for NCR. She thinks of Bill’s cracked lips, the sweat gathering in the creases of his brow. At least heat stroke hasn’t set in yet. Small blessings.

“Speaking of which,” Arcade pipes up, “You spoke to the King about the water, yes? I think I can spare a quarter hour from my _noble_ but quite probably fruitless pursuits—”

“Arcade—”

“—in the name of _science_ of course one has to break a few eggs to make an omelet, so to speak, that is to say, waste a few cuttings or a hundred, did I say waste, I meant spend in the interest of—”

“Gannon.”

“—potentially uncovering some untapped properties unknown to the locals who’ve lived here for hundreds of years—”

“ _Doctor_. Go on a water run. We can hold down the fort,” Julie says drily, suppressing a snort. “Take June or Beatrix.”

The stranger clears his throat. “Actually, if you need an extra hand, Doctor, I’d be happy to tag along.”

“Sure,” Arcade says instantly, ignoring Julie’s raised eyebrow. “Grab a barrel.”

Julie shakes her head as the two of them stride out of the camp, empty yellow barrels swinging at their sides. Hope he’s not expecting to get paid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my sincerest apologies for being so long delinquent on this fic, please enjoy this chapter and a happy Femslash February, friends.

Bill isn’t where he was before when Julie returns the following day, the soonest she can get away, and he isn’t in the squatters’ camp on that end of town. The stretch of concrete and rubble along the northwestern wall seems less crowded than usual, but it’s hard to say. She doesn't get out here much.

“Excuse me,” she asks a ghoul who stands smoking a stub of a cigarette by burning barrel pocked with bullet marks. He turns, exhaling smoke, and Julie coughs. She recognizes him, though, by the sweatervest and the amblyopia. Goes by the name of Grecks.

“Yeah?” he rasps.

“Have you see Bill Ronte?”

Grecks takes another pull and regards her with suspicion—or maybe it’s just the eye. Hard to tell. “You’re one of those Followers doctors, yeah?”

“Yes. I’m Julie. Bill’s a friend of mine.”

Grecks grunts. “Probably find him down by the station with all the other folks.”

“The station?”

“Yeah, you know, the old train station. Where they’re givin’ them food handouts.”

Julie blinks. “Food handouts?”

“What, you ain’t heard about it? That NCR Major and her people? Givin’ out food to citizens. All you gotta do is ask.”

It all clicks into place at last. Food handouts. Down by the station. The Major. _Can’t get food if you’re a local._ With her mind on water and medical supplies, somehow the other half of what the gambler said had never registered.

“Thank you,” Julie said. “By the old train station, you said?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Hey, can you spare a few caps?”

“Oh—of course.” Julie fishes in the pocket of her coat. “Here. For your trouble.”

Grecks pockets the caps with a look of surprise. “Hey, thanks.” 

 

The station itself is boarded up, has been for years, nothing but rubble and rotting floorboards within. It’s across from the station, in front of one of the many ruined storefronts, that Julie sees people gathered, a cluster of squatters and two guards flanking the door. They’re dressed in the same style as the Major, in mercenary leathers rather than the desert drab NCR uniform, but their stance and the rifles they carry set them apart.

Julie approaches. Some heads turn. She recognizes a good number of them.

“Good evening, friend,” one of the guard says. Though he’s armed, with a full ammo belt slung over his jacket, his smile is easygoing. “You a citizen of the NCR?”

“You dunno who she is?” It’s the tattooed woman whose stitches she removed yesterday, cutting in before Julie can answer. Julie reaches for her name, sure she knows it, but she sees so many people, hears so many names. The woman laughs. “That’s the doctor from the Mormon Fort. Followers of the Apocalypse. They all from California, ain’t you?”

“Followers of—oh.” Recognition flashes across the soldier’s face. “You’re Dr. Farkas, aren’t you? Major Kieran mentioned you. Said you patched up Private Sorola after—after he got hurt.”

“Yes, that was us. I’m not here for food,” Julie clarifies. “I’m looking for Bill Ronte. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Don’t know the name, but he might be inside.” The guard nods. “You can go in.”

 

And there she is, the Major herself. She’s leaning easily on the counter, talking familiarly with some people gathered near. The storefront is cramped and dim, dust still clinging to every surface, but there's quite a spread of food laid out—plenty of nonperishable goods, cereals and tinned meat and ready-to-eat meals, but there’s a few wooden crates heaped with somewhat scrawny-looking specimens of maize, potatoes, carrots, banana yucca, and pinto beans. Stunted or not, it’s more fresh food in one place than Julie’s seen in a long time. The Major talks with her visitors as they gather food, laughs, brushing a lock of sandy brown hair behind her ear.

She straightens up when she sees Julie. “Dr. Farkas.”

For a moment Julie’s forgotten what she came here for.

“Major Kieran,” she says, and then, because it feels like she ought to say something else. “How is Private Sorola?”

“Medical discharge,” Major Kieran replies. “I was told he should make a full recovery, though, if a long one. Dr. Kemp at McCarran complimented your work. Said he certainly wouldn’t have made it without what you and your people did for him. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” There’s an awkward pause during which the Major watches her expectantly, and Julie realizes she’s neither ended the conversation nor said what she came here for. “I’m actually looking for—oh! Bill, hello.” Julie makes her way between the settlers eyeing her to where Bill stands, near the end of the counter, standing in a slight hunch that makes him look a smaller man than he is. Out of the corner of her eye, she is aware that Major Kieran’s eyes are still on her, too. “Hello,” Julie says again, once she’s closer. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay, Julie, I’m all right.” Bill’s eyes dart nervously back and forth between Julie and the counter and the door and Julie understands, steps to the side so as not to block his path and make him feel cornered. His shoulders slacken by a minute degree, but his grip tightens on the can of Cram, knuckles knobby and pale.

It’s too crowded in here for this talk, and everyone is still watching her.

“Can we talk outside?” Julie says gently. “When you’re finished here, I mean.”

Bill stares at her for a long moment. His blue eyes are wide, dark in the dim light.

“Okay, Julie,” he says, so quiet she has to strain to hear. “Okay.”

 

She goes out first. Gives him a good few minutes, begins to think maybe he’s not coming. Maybe there’s a back exit he snuck out to avoid her. Maybe he’ll just hole up inside hoping she leaves. Maybe she should leave.

“Everything all right?” the second guard asks her, with a curious look.

“Fine,” Julie replies. “Just waiting for a friend.”

The guard cocks her head, crossing her arms and shifting from one foot to the other. “You a friend of the Major’s?”

“No,” Julie says. “Not really.”

The guard nods. Whether curious or bored Julie can’t tell. “You Followers been in Freeside a long time?”

“Around seven years.” Julie wonders if her tone betrays her own curiosity. The Followers have been active in the Mojave region as long as the NCR, having first ventured east in cooperation, though that relationship quickly deteriorated. Perhaps they aren’t telling that story to the more recent recruits. Then again, maybe she’s just making conversation. “How about you? This… operation, I mean.”

“Only since August. My first deployment.” The young soldier smiles with obvious pride. “Private Yuderka Valdez. I’m from Shady Sands. Didn’t necessarily intend to end up in the Supply Corps, but it’s a good post here. Helpin’ folks. It's too bad about—”

"Yudy," the first guard says.

"Good post," Valdez repeats, recovering so quickly Julie blinks. “And the Major's an excellent CO. Quite a woman."

“I’m sure she is.”

Bill emerges at that moment, rescuing her from any further attempts at small talk. His hands are still shaking, Julie notes. But he stands a little taller, blinking for a moment as his eyes adjust to the light.

“Julie, I’m.” Bill swallows, licks his lips, nods. “I’m coming back with you. God help me, but I’ve got to get me right again. I thought a lot, a lot about what you said, and… and you’re right. I need help, I’m s-sorry, Julie, I really screwed things up. But I’ll, I’ll go back with you if you’ll take me in. I…” He trails off, but there’s hope in his eyes once again, and Julie’s heart seems to lift in her chest.

“I’m so glad, Bill,” she says, and gives him a broad smile. “Things will get better. I promise. We’re all here for you. Let’s go.”

 

A great commotion in the street greets them as they approach the Fort, a commotion which turns out to be one of the gecko hunting bands from down south. A group of rugged well-tempered wastelanders spill into the Mormon Fort full of talk and laughter and dust and the smell of coyote tobacco. Big Sina is the leader, a woman probably of about average size, though her big boots and pack and booming voice make her seem to take up much more space.

Julie asks them not to chew in the camp, which they grumble about, but all seems forgiven when Miguel gets to work on a woman's injured leg, shredded by the teeth and claws of a vicious gecko, the flesh in and around the wound fiery red.

"Can't believe you walked here like this," says Miguel, carefully cutting away the torn and bloodied fabric of her trousers.

“Fah.” The injured hunter, Gert, waves a hand dismissively. “Had worse.”

“You would’ve had a lot worse if you let this go,” Miguel remarks, “It’s infected but not gangrenous. Yet. I need to clean this out. It’s not going to be pleasant.”

Gert grunts. “Do what you got to, Doc. I’ll manage.”

"Ain't usually come this far north," explains Fred, a short stocky man with a wild beard. He looks unaccustomed to being inside walls, and his eyes keep searching the Mormon Fort with unabashed curiosity.

"What brings you up here?" Julie asks.

"Gun Runners. Trade's scant down south. Caravans all backed up at the Outpost. Too far. Better to come north. 'Specially with..." He gestures to Gert, who makes barely a hiss as Miguel cleans the wound, only a tightness in her jaw betraying what is probably quite a lot of pain. She should have a shot of Med-X for it, but she hasn’t asked, and Julie knows the number of syringes left in the lock-up without looking.

 

She steps away for a minute to show Bill to a bunk, figuring he might prefer to be out of range of the smell of grain alcohol. She gives him a shot of Fixer and a bottle of water, and Bill takes a few swallows and sighs. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, Julie. Please, is there something I can do, some way I can help out, a-around here?”

“You should get some rest, Bill. Drink that water and give the Fixer a chance to kick in.”

Bill shakes his head. “Lyin’ still, I’ll just be thinkin’ how much I want a damn drink. Ain’t had one since, since yesterday.”

Julie can’t help smiling. “I’m proud of you, Bill. You can do this.”

He shrugs off the praise. “What I can put these old hands to work on? Might not be at my, my best for a few days, but I’d as well make myself useful as lie about moanin’.”

“Well, there is one thing.”

“Anything.” Bill’s face is all relief and gratitude. Julie feels a pang of guilt anyway.

“One of our generators is out. If you feel up to taking a look at it…”

“Happy to. Happy to. Of course. Thank you.”

 

Miguel catches her on her way out of the eastern tower. “Boss, I heard that business about Lady Jane’s caravan… what’s our Plan B here?”

“What’s the worst of it? Med-X?”

“Alcohol,” Miguel says grimly, “Well, several things, but mostly alcohol. We’re going to have a real sanitation problem on our hands if we can’t get in a fresh supply of disinfectant.”

It’s no surprise, Julie runs the numbers every week, but the hunting party no doubt cut into their supply more than usual. “We’ll have to find a local stop-gap. Jane won’t be back in business anytime soon. I’ll make some inquiries. Thanks.”

“No problem, boss.”

 

She checks in with Bill an hour or so later, with no intent to pressure him, but Bill’s already disassembled and reassembled her dead generator and diagnosed the problem. “She just needs a new conductor, Julie. Don’t suppose you’ve got one lying around.”

“Not so lucky as that,” Julie replies. “Don’t know when a caravan will be by, either.”

Bill nods, wiping his palms on the knees of his trousers. “Well, Mick and Ralph oughta have one.”

“Mick and Ralph?” Julie says wryly. “They sell something besides guns?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Bill says, missing her sarcastic tone. “All manner of supplies, you know.”

Julie’s pretty sure Mick and Ralph keep a lot more firearms in stock than any other manner of “supplies,” but she keeps that thought to herself.

Bill hesitates for a long moment. “I… I would go and pick one up from him, but…” His brow furrows and he looks upset. Ashamed, even.

“Bill,” Julie says gently, “what is it?”

“Well, it’s… that part of town’s where old Dixon hangs out,” Bill confesses, eyes dropping to the floor in shame. “He’s the one got me hooked on that awful liquor of his… he’ll come after me, ‘f I go. I can’t go back there, Julie, I can’t… if he sees me...”

“You’ll stay right here,” Julie says immediately. “I’ll send someone else to get it. It’s going to be okay, Bill. You don’t have to go back to that. You’re strong.” She meets his eyes and gives him a smile. “I’m proud of you.”

Bill blushes, and looks away. “Oh, Julie.”

 

Miguel’s still busy with the hunting party, Mona’s off-duty, Arcade is… where is Arcade? Julie ducks into the research tent. No Gannon, though he’s left behind a trail of cactus cuttings and a file filled with notes open on his terminal. Julie takes a moment to scan them with interest. For all the fuss Arcade makes about the pointlessness of his research, he’s made some real progress. No, they aren’t likely to turn up any miraculous new uses for the native flora, as Arcade is fond of pointing out, but over time he has found ways to more efficiently extract, distill, concentrate and blend the vital ingredients they draw from those plants, making use of what rudimentary equipment they have. It’s valuable work, much as he may disparage it. But that’s just Arcade’s way.

Where is he, that’s the question.

Ah. There by the front entrance with—well. If it isn’t that same gambler from the other day, that well-heeled young man with the neatly trimmed beard and the crisp city speech. Talking with Arcade his face is more animated, his hands gesturing in quick, short motions. Arcade’s nodding along with him.

Julie approaches.

The gambler’s eyes land on her and he stops speaking in what sounds like mid-sentence. “Good day, Doctor.”

Julie nods a greeting. The accompanying “Hello” doesn’t quite make it out of her mouth. “Arcade, can you make a run to Mick and Ralph’s? Bill needs a new conductor to repair the generator. And could you make an inquiry with them about some supplies? Miguel can tell you what’s needed.”

“No problem.”

That’s it. No quip about cacti, no smartass remarks about his utility in the camp, just _No problem_.

Julie watches him go, watches as the gambler follows, turning to tip his hat to her and smile an inscrutable smile.

 

They’re back in no time, or what seems like no time to Julie, having pulled aside one of the hunters whose hacking cough was echoing off the stone walls like gunshots despite his efforts to suppress it. Amid protests of _I’m fine, it’s nothing, just a tickle_ , she ushered him firmly into an exam tent and demanded that he remove his leather coat and let her have a listen with her stethoscope. It’s not pure altruism on her part, she thinks with a mild irritation she takes care not to show. The last thing they need in Freeside right now is an epidemic of whooping cough. One of the last things. One on a long list of last things. She sees Arcade and the gambler pass by out of the corner of her eye, sees them pass back the other way a minute or two later.

Having ascertained that the hunter’s cough is not, in all likelihood, anything contagious, and having advised him to lay off the cigarettes if possible (“Bah! Nothing wrong with ‘em. Government propaganda that. Great Grandpop smoked like a campfire, lived to be a hundred. Well, least that’s what they tol’ me. Never met him. I do thank you kindly, doc—” he descended into a brief fit of coughing once again “—doctor, but I’ll be running along—”), Julie emerges from the tent and nearly runs straight into Arcade.

“We got what you needed, conductor for Bill, enough supply to stretch us a few days, though Mick said they can’t do much for us for the long term. Julie, ah... ” Arcade gestures in that way he does when he’s working out how to phrase something. “The courier here” (Courier?) “is working on some things in town and around the area and, well, since I don’t foresee any groundbreaking revelations on barrel cacti in the next week or so...  would you mind me going with him and giving him a hand for a while? Could give me a chance to do some good around the region. Things that could help Freeside.”

She should tell him no. It’s not a good time for him to be taking off when they need all the manpower they can get right here. And whatever _things_ Arcade’s new friend is working on, his indifferent look when she brought up their needs tells her those things aren’t related to helping Freeside.

Julie stares him down for a long minute, letting him feel the full force of her thinking it over. She may be a full head shorter than Arcade, but she can stare.

And she does think it over. In particular, she thinks of the cuttings scattered on his table and left, the unfinished notes on the terminal, the dry tone in which he says, “ _Nihil novi sub sole_ , Julie,” whenever he delivers her a progress report.

She says, “Okay.”

Because she’s too tired to fight him. Because he wouldn’t fight back, if it came to that. Because if a week away is what it takes to break his boredom, to make sure Arcade doesn’t walk out that gate permanently, then so be it. They need him. Whether he believes it or not.

 

She makes it perhaps a dozen steps before Beatrix accosts her. It’s shift change, and she’s on her way out, Raya coming in to replace her. “Doc,” Beatrix says, touching the brim of her wide hat. “Need to let you know—I’m leaving. I’ve taken another position.”

“You’re leaving,” Julie repeats, already recalculating the guard shift schedule in her head. That’ll mean back to 12-hour shifts, until they can hire another guard. June won’t be thrilled with that. Raya and Tony will probably appreciate the extra pay. “When?"

“Immediately.” Beatrix shrugs. “Nothing personal, kiddo. Just time for me to move on.”

It’s going to be that kind of week, then. Julie nods, “Good luck then,” and goes up to her room to revise the schedule in the late day heat.


	5. Chapter 5

“How is he?”

Roy, the oldest man of the three, awaits anxiously in the courtyard when Julie emerges from the critical care tent, to the faint pink of sunrise tinting the edges of the sky. He’s a born and bred Freesider, beard nearly white, clothing stitched together from brahmin skin and the old burlap the Wrangler discards sometimes from their grain shipments. Julie’s seen him many times, here and around town. His wrist is wrapped now, a cloth sling binding the left arm to his chest—dislocated shoulder, sprained wrist, Julie guesses. Mona saw to him, and the young man at his side, hardly more than a boy, whose broken nose has finally stopped bleeding. He got the least of it, it seems—banged up knuckles, scrapes and bruises but no critical injuries.

“He’s out of the woods,” Julie says, holding her hands away from her white coat. They need washing. The young man lying in the tent got it the worst of the three, hauled in unconscious on his friends’ shoulders. Broken ribs, a concussion. “He’s resting now. We’ll keep a close watch, and keep him hydrated. If you don’t have anywhere to be, it would be good to stay with him. If he wakes up, try and get him to drink some water. There’s a bottle by his bed.”

Roy nods.  “We’ll stay with him.”

“You never did say what happened,” Julie says.

The two exchange a look.

“Weren’t nothin’,” Wayne says.

“I’d say it was something.”

“What’s it to you, anyway?”

“If you need help—”

Wayne lifts his chin defiantly. “We know the King! They’ll get what’s comin’ to ‘em! Those—”

“That’ll do, son,” Roy says tiredly, patting the boy on the shoulder with his good hand. “Let’s go sit with Farris for a spell.”

 

“Ugly business.” Mona comes up beside Julie at the handwash basin at the back of camp as she’s scrubbing down. Two fingers of yucca root soap from the big metal tins the caravans bring. One more thing they’re running too low on for comfort. “That beatdown on the locals? Haven’t seen one like that in a while. Had ‘personal’ written all over it.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah. Kid said he and his friend got jumped coming out of the Wrangler. He fought back, got in a few hits. The old man tried to defend them—that’s when they came at him. The wrist was him trying to cover his face.”

Julie sighs. “It just never ends.”

Mona nods. “You packing in? You were off rotation hours ago.”

Julie cracks a weary smile. “That’s the plan, yes.”

“Good, get some sleep. I’m on ‘til six. I’ll clean up down here.”

“You’re a gift, Mona.”

Mona shakes off her wet hands, tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear and smiles tiredly. “No problem, Julie.”

 

Julie’s second or third or whatever wind she’s on wears off abruptly about halfway up the tower stairs, the heaviness and ache of her muscles and a pounding at the bridge of her nose hitting her all at once. She takes the rest of the stairs slower, slinging her coat off and over the back of her desk chair.

She drops onto the edge of her bunk to unlace her boots, unbuttons her shirt worn soft and colorless. Puts her thumb through a small tear in the shoulder seam as she shrugs it off. Have to mend that… sometime. She drapes her shirt and jeans on top of her doctor’s coat. Have to get another day or two out of them before they can be washed. She runs the heel of her hand down the spikes of her hair, crunching and breaking up the extra hard pomade that holds them in place, until the long pieces fall against her scalp. She sweeps them straight back, and rubs the back of her neck, closing her eyes and trying to relax the muscles in her face to ease the headache.

It’s past dawn now and her tower room has had the whole night to drop a blessed few degrees to something approaching a comfortable sleeping temperature. Stripped down to just her underwear and a camisole, Julie flips off the desk lamp, stretches out on her bed and sighs, sliding her legs under the thin blanket and pulling it just to her waist.

She releases a long sigh, sinks into the mattress, shifting to move her hip off a poking spring. The light from around the corner at the head the stairs casts a soft pool of light around the corner, leaving the room mostly in darkness. She can just make out the ceiling beams over her head, and she stares up into the dark for a few minutes, willing her tired brain to stop spinning, her weary muscles to relax, and finally closes her eyes and waits for sleep to come.

 

A stab of panic wakes her, rolling sharply upright in the irrational certainty that she’s missed something . Julie blinks in the dark and sits for a moment listening into the darkness of the tower room, waiting to hear someone calling her name from below, but there’s no one. She’s awakened on her own.

She swings herself out of bed with a grunt. Still tired, her belly uncomfortably empty. A tap of the spacebar on her terminal brings the screen to life in sharp green on black, the system clock at the bottom of the screen telling her it’s still before noon. Technically, she was off at midnight, and comes back on duty at twelve. Of course, as the administrator, Julie is always on call, but she serves a shift rotation just like the rest of the doctors in the camp. No one would fault her for oversleeping. Mona was up late with her, knows when she went to sleep, and Arcade--no. Arcade’s gone right now. So it’s just Miguel on duty, and Mona’s not back on until 6.

But she hasn’t overslept. It’s only 11:30. She’s slept perhaps five and a half hours. Her stomach growls. Should’ve eaten something before bed, after staying up so late.

She dresses quickly, remembers that hole in the shoulder again when she pulls her shirt on carelessly and tugs the seam a little wider in the process. There’s a spool of thread, she thinks, in their odds and ends crate out back (somebody should really organize that thing). Maybe a sewing needle? She isn’t sure. Have to grab a moment to check. Best get the thing mended before the whole sleeve falls off, and before she throws in in the wash pile. Laundry is no one’s favorite chore, especially when there’s always medical work to be done, and so their clothes tend to be washboarded with the kind of ruthless efficiency that can shred an already-loose seam beyond repair. When their numbers are better, the everyday work like laundering and cooking is usually done by non-medically trained Followers or local volunteers, but they’re spread so thin in the Mojave these days, and everyone has to do their part to keep things running.

She asks for more resources every time she writes back to California, but the Followers’ central chapter keeps a careful rein on their budget, especially since they lost the support of the NCR. Julie can’t fault them. She’s in the same boat out here. When Usanagi and Alvarez and Rivas and Anderson do check in (which they do, with varying degrees of regularity) it’s always with inquiries about allocating more resources to their respective projects. Scraping by. Seems to be a theme around here.

 

Julie takes what time she has to brew herself a cup of what they all humorously refer to as “New Canaan Coffee.” It’s not coffee, or anything close, real coffee being rarer and more precious than gold, but a brew of roasted coyote tobacco and honey mesquite pods produces a more-or-less drinkable concoction that’ll perk you up in a pinch. She tries not to make a habit of it. Today it’s necessary.

An old pre-war relic of a coffee brewer sits on the small table in her room, good for heating up water quickly if nothing else. She slicks her hair back into its usual spikes with a fingerful of pomade, as the machine heats with pops and groans, Her stomach growls again. With any luck Miguel will have thrown something on the fire. With a little more luck it might be something other than gecko meat.

Julie takes a few swallows of the bittersweet brew, wrinkling her nose, then downs the cup quickly, shrugs on her coat, and heads down to camp.

 

Nothing is on fire, thank goodness—well, nothing more than gecko meat, which Julie smells the minute she steps outside. She checks in at the critical care tent to find Farris still sleeping but breathing normally, Wayne sacked out and snoring, Roy still awake and keeping watch over them both. Julie offers him a gentle admonishment to get some sleep himself, to which he grunts neutrally, his eyes never leaving the two younger men.

The hunting party left them a sizable portion of their game as payment, but Julie forgoes the meat, opting for a couple cakes of roasted banana yucca. The dense cakes of dried fruit are chewy and sweet and nutritious, and keep fairly well in the Mojave heat. When Mona comes back on tonight maybe they can get a pot of pinto beans going. The remaining gecko meat can be salted and dried for jerky, good for their emergency stores. Maybe she can recruit a volunteer to help with that later today...

Miguel is occupied with a patient across the courtyard. He looks up long enough to give Julie a brief nod from across the courtyard but does not come running to inform her of any more dire shortages or other minor disasters. Small blessings.

She spots Bill by the eastern tower, conversing with—

Julie squints in the rising midday sun.

Major Kieran.

 

The Major turns as Julie approaches, stiffens only ever so slightly, but offers a smile. “Mornin’, Doctor. Just came by to check in on old Bill. Hadn’t seen him around for a while.”

“Oh, of course.” It hadn’t occurred to her to think the Major and Bill might be friends. “Bill’s been lending us an invaluable hand around here. He’s really been a godsend.” That’s the truth. Detox sickness took its toll on Bill the first couple days, and Julie told him to rest up and recover all he needed, but Bill being Bill, he was up and about again as soon as he could manage. Since then though all three generators have received a full tune-up, and he’s been checking the wiring throughout the Fort.

Bill’s eyes drop modestly to the ground, as always, but Julie thinks she can make out the briefest smile behind his bushy beard. “Oh, Julie.”

“Don’t ‘Oh, Julie,’ her,” Major Kieran admonishes, and laughs, a bright nasal laugh that’s almost startling to hear. “I’m sure it’s the truth.”

“Pshaw.” Bill waves away the praise with a grease-smeared hand, but he’s definitely smiling now. “I’d best get back to it. Was ever so kind of you to come by, Major.”

“Of course, Bill.” The Major smiles. “Don’t be a stranger, a’right?”

“I won’t, Major.”

Bill disappears inside the tower, and Julie smiles. “He’s one of the good ones.”

The Major’s brow furrows slightly and inexplicably. “He is,” she says, neutrally.

“It was kind of you to come check on him,” Julie adds. “He’s had a rough time of it.”

“Oh, I know. We’ve talked about it.” The Major crosses her arms. “He was awful scared about tryin’ to get clean again. Gave him a bit of pep talk, that day you came lookin’ for him. He’s a good man. Gives me a hand at the pantry, somedays. Just down on his luck.”

Julie nods. “Most folks around here are.”

“It’s a tough place to call home.” The Major pauses a beat, then adds, “No matter who you are. You came out from California, yeah?”

“I did. Back in ‘71.”

The Major nods, meeting her eyes. Hers are a very bold hazely-green. “Where in the Republic are you from?”

Julie can’t help feeling it’s something of a loaded question, but she answers anyway. “I grew up on a small farm. Little no-name town. I was actually born out in New Canaan.” She notes a slight raise of eyebrows at that. “My mother moved us back west when I was just a baby.”

“Ah.”

Julie’s unsure how to interpret that “Ah” and so she doesn’t. “Major, if I may ask… I understand your operation is only offering food to NCR citizens, is that right?”

Kieran’s expression clouds a bit. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Can I ask why? It seems to me that opening the program to locals might be a good diplomatic move.”

The Major purses her lips, silent for a moment, then lets out a breath. “I know you mean well, Doctor. But I’m afraid that’s not possible. And I’m not particularly open to discussing why.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

Julie blinks. “Maybe I don’t, then.”

Major Kieran shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I like you, Dr. Farkas, and I appreciate what your people do here. But what’s done is done, and I have my orders.”

“Ah. I’m sorry, Major. I didn’t mean to pry into military matters.”

The Major relaxes a little. “That’s all right. It’s just not something I’m eager to talk about.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment.

“I’m sure you have a limited supply,” Julie offers. “That’s certainly something we can understand.”

Major Kieran nods sympathetically. “You don’t know the half of it. I get half the food I’m promised from the sharecroppers, half the quality one expects, for what those folks are gettin’. I don’t mean to disparage—I know the farmers work hard. But they should have everything they need—good clean water, good soil.” She spreads her hands, shrugs, and Julie remembers the crates of wrinkled bean pods and shriveled ears of corn. “I don’t know if they’re sending me their cast-off, or what… I just don’t understand it, frankly. And when I make inquiries, I’m told I’m lucky to be getting anything at all.”

Julie raises her eyebrows. “I take it this project wasn’t exactly a priority.”

“You could say that.” The Major hooks her thumbs into the pockets of her leather jacket, shrugs again. “But it’s a priority for me. There’s little being done for Freeside. All the focus is on the Strip and the Dam, and for good reason. But we got a lot of our people setting down here, for better or worse. Somebody’s got to see to them, too.”

“That’s a good outlook,” Julie can’t help saying. “If… a surprising one.”

Major Kieran’s brow furrows. “Not so much. We look out for our own in the NCR. I’m sure you understand that.”

All of humanity is “our own,” Julie thinks. Not just NCR. But she bites her tongue, and says instead, “Well, Freeside is certainly an area of dire need. We’re struggling out here, despite our best efforts. And with Lady Jane’s caravan down, our supplies are running low.”

“Hmm.” The Major tilt her head slightly, regards her thoughtfully. “You still relying on the caravans for supplies? Surprised nobody’s cut you a deal locally, with everything you do for people.”

“The Crimson won’t deal with us.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the Crimson. But what about Mick and Ralph? Or the Garrets? They turn you away too?”

Julie snorts. “Those aren’t quite the sort of _suppliers_ we’re looking for.”

Major Kieran gives her a sidelong glance. “Seems to me beggars can’t be choosers.”

Julie bites back a sharper retort. “I should hope we’re a step above beggars yet.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m serious, though. About the local merchants, have you asked around?” Kieran purses her lips thoughtfully. “If you’re really in need, I’m sure somebody would cut you a deal.”

“I did send someone to Mick and Ralph. They don’t have the kind of supplies in the quantity we need.”

“Ah, so you did ask. Sorry. I misunderstood.”

“It’s fine,” Julie says again.

Major Kieran nods, slowly, looking as though she’s mulling something over. “Well, I do wish you luck, Doctor.”

“You too. And thanks for being a friend to Bill. Honestly, that means a lot to me. To know he has somebody else in his corner. He’s a good man.”

“He is.” The Major uncrosses her arms, rubs gloved palms together and moves to leave. “Thank you again, Dr. Farkas. For Bill. And Private Sorola.”

“That’s what we’re here for. And please, call me Julie.”

Major Kieran cracks a smile, but doesn’t respond to that. “See you around.”

 

* * *

 

“Letter for Dr. Julie Farkas.”

Arcade’s well-heeled friend is about the last person Julie expected to see on her doorstep at 9 AM sharp the next morning. Collar crisp, boots gleaming, neatly oiled hair with not a strand out of place as usual. How he keeps so sharp in the dust and desert heat is a mystery.

Julie takes the proffered letter. Mail is something of a rarity, especially mail addressed directly to her. It’s not Followers correspondence. “What’s this about?”

“Just delivering.” The man nods curtly. “Mojave Express. It’s my job.”

Ah yes. Arcade did call him a courier.

“Is Dr. Gannon still with you?” Julie asks, peering around him. No sign of any companion.

“We parted ways.” The courier’s expression is coolly neutral, his mouth a tight line. “I assumed he came straight back here.”

When, Julie wants to say, when did you part ways? Where? What did Arcade say? She doesn’t get her questions out fast enough, and the courier excuses himself rapidly, leaving her standing with only a letter in her hand and worry needling at her mind.

What could’ve happened? Is he telling the truth? Is Arcade all right?

Surely if he left the courier’s company he’d return to them? He’d have meant to…?

 

The letter has no seal and no envelope, just a folded sheet of paper. A smaller piece of note paper slips out as Julie unfolds it. On the larger sheet, an itemized list, two columns, in brusque block letters. On the smaller sheet, in a smaller and sharper hand:

> _Dr. Farkas,_
> 
> _At the risk of overstepping my bounds, I spoke to the Garrets about your supply issues._  
>  _Here’s what they can offer, if you’re interested in making a deal._  
>  _I hope this helps, and if I’m out of line, please accept my apologies._
> 
> _Maj. Elizabeth Kieran_  
>  _NCR Supply Corps_


	6. Chapter 6

Arcade’s absence weighs heavy on her as the day stretches on. Busy with patients, pondering the offer from the Garrets, it lingers in the back of her mind, thoughts of what might have happened coming to her unbidden.

“Julie,” Miguel says, after catching her eyes wandering toward the research tent while swabbing a Wrangler bouncer’s split lip. “He’ll be back. Gannon can be a real prickly pear, but he wouldn’t just up and disappear.”

“I hope you’re right,” Julie says, uneasily.

Miguel snorts a laugh. “Look, I know it isn’t exactly something we’re supposed to talk about, but Arcade’s no slouch with a pistol, either. He can take care of himself. He’ll come back. When he’s ready, probably.”

Everybody thinks they can take care of themselves. Every squatter, drifter, and prospector. Every homesteader and hustler. She thinks of the tough, tattooed woman with the stab wound, the gecko hunter with the shredded leg, Kieran’s soldier beaten bloody, Farris in the critical tent groaning with bandaged ribs.

Everybody can handle themselves, until they catch a bad break.

 

Freeside’s full of people who could handle themselves. Every day the gates open, and a fresh flood of NCR squatters and prospectors, gamblers and hopefuls pour through, headed from the north gate straight on to the Strip. The call of bodyguards hawking their services drifts over the wall of the Mormon Fort hour upon hour, _Don’t take your life in your hands! Hire a King! We rule the streets!_ and _You get what you pay for! Hire Orris, the best protection in Freeside. Don’t gamble on your personal safety!_ Orris is a real character—charges double what the Kings do, gets a lot of repeat business. Whatever he does, it must work, because rarely do they see any of his customers come in for medical attention. But the Kings seem to do just as well.

Trouble comes when they leave their hopefuls at the Strip gate, and House’s securitrons demand a credit check. 2000 caps on your person to get in, if you don’t have a passport.

“That absolute _sham_ of a bodyguard,” a gambler in a cheap brown suit fumes at Julie, while she nods patiently and eyes the critical care tent, “took my caps _up front_ , no refunds, and how was I supposed to know about this _credit_ business, two grand, my god, do you know what it costs to travel from California these days? And then the crook _leaves me_ there, says this is as far as he goes, unless I pay more, leaves me in the middle of this godforsaken _hole_ , says I might _camp out_ until I can find some _work_ , in this place, the very idea, it’s a wonder how they all keep _alive_ out here, living like absolute animals, present company excluded of _course_ —”

“Thanks,” Julie says drily. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“Well, you’re going to check me over, aren’t you? I’m sure I’ve caught _something_ in this stinking pit.”

“Do you have any symptoms?”

“Symptoms?! What kind of doctor are you?”

“Why don’t you sit a while and rest,” Julie says, catching sight of a blonde head out of the corner of her eye and nearly jumping out of her seat. “I’ll come back in a bit.”

 

Arcade crosses the courtyard with long, quick strides and manages to duck into his tent without making eye contact with anyone. It takes Julie a few more steps to catch up and poke her head inside.

“Welcome back, stranger.”

He looks up, a little guiltily, she thinks, not quite meeting her eyes. “Oh, hi, Julie, of course I meant to say hello, I ah, saw you were busy with a patient and I didn’t want to disturb you. Figured I should start catching up on some work anyway. So ah, what did I miss?”

“Arcade,” Julie says pointedly.

He stops. Looks her in the eye, guardedly. “Julie...”

Julie steps all the way inside the tent. “Everything all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you’re the worst liar. Terrible. Worse than me, even.”

His eyes widen, slightly. Or maybe that’s just the glare off his glasses. “Oookay, well.”

Julie crosses her arms and cocks her head. “Also, your courier friend stopped by to deliver a letter this morning and you weren’t with him, and I…”

“...and you’ve been worried sick all day.” Arcade’s face falls. “I… should’ve checked in, Julie, I’m sorry.”

Julie snorts. “Well, I wouldn’t say _sick_.”

He snickers. “Don’t flatter me or anything.”

Julie spreads her hands. “May I sit?”

“Yeah. Yeah, go ahead, pull up a chair.” Arcade lets out a long sigh, rises and swings his own chair around to face her before sitting again. “I was going to talk to you. I promise. I…”

“Is it not a good time?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Might as well get this over with.” Arcade lowers his voice a note. “So… the courier was working for the NCR.” Julie’s eyebrows shoot up, and Arcade adds quickly, “Nothing official. Just bounties and odd jobs. Anyway the sharecroppers haven’t been meeting quota. It’s been a big to-do, apparently, the farmers say they’re not getting enough water, higher-ups claim they’re lazy or trying to cheat the system or… well, you know how it goes.”

Julie nods. “Major Kieran here in Freeside mentioned that her food supply isn’t what it should be.”

“Right. So anyway… we found out why. There was a water shortage after all. They should’ve had plenty, but somebody was diverting a portion from the line.” Arcade pauses a beat. “Diverting it to Westside.”

“Westside.” Julie turns that over. Arcade’s watching expectantly, waiting for her to put it together. “You mean…”

“Yes.” Arcade takes a deep breath. “It was Tom.”

Tom Anderson. Officially, Followers on independent projects are supposed to give a detailed progress report once a month. Practically speaking, most of the Mojave Followers have better things to do than write and mail reports, and Julie has better things to do than chase them down, and she's found that quarterly reports are more than adequate. Everyone knows the Westside Co-op is thriving, and it's partly due to Tom's efforts.

The uncomfortable part is, if she'd known what Tom was doing, she’d… maybe not have approved, but turned a blind eye. Justified it to herself—NCR has plenty of water and resources, they'll never know the difference. Easy enough as long as she never knew the numbers, never saw the food shortages with her own eyes. Limited supply. Only serving NCR citizens. _I don’t understand it, frankly… I’m told I’m lucky to be getting anything at all._ Never would’ve thought something like that would be hurting Freeside. Though she should have.

"Someone caught wise to it," Arcade continues. "An NCR corporal. They had an altercation, and Tom… killed him.

"Oh my God," Julie says aloud, forgetting her usual _goodness_ for _God_. Funny how shock rattles old habits to the surface.

"We confronted him. Didn't have much choice. The courier insisted Tom turn himself in. I... tried to mitigate things, but he wasn't having any of it. He promised Tom he'd let Westside keep getting the water, in exchange for Tom confessing to the murder. Minute we're out of there, he marches straight to McCarran and reports the water diversion." Arcade sighs. "I was... rather vocal with my disapproval. He told me if I didn't like it I could take a hike."

So that's why they parted company.

"Tom was in the wrong," Julie says quietly. Her fingertips curl under the hem of her coat, hiding the shaking of her hands. Followers committing murder. On her watch. Under her nose, practically. "I understand the impulse to defend a Follower, but... "

"I know, it's just... by reporting to the NCR, he may have damned the Co-op. Which was one of the most successful communities in the Mojave.” Arcade’s brow furrows with an anger Julie knows too well. “All so the NCR can feed their own and let the rest of Vegas starve."

“We’re not here to steal.”

“Right. Not like the good old Republic.”

Julie takes a deep breath. “It still isn’t right. Have they apprehended Tom?”

Arcade looks somewhat guilty. “Well, when the courier told me to take a hike, I hiked straight back to Westside. Thought I could at least give Tom fair warning, tell him to get out of dodge before the MPs came looking for him.”

Julie closes her eyes briefly. Opens them. “And?”

“He was already gone. I don’t know what happened. Could be he left to turn himself in. I asked all around Westside. Nobody saw any troops come through.” Arcade sighs heavily, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Julie. I don’t know if I did right here. I was trying to make things better. Might’ve made them worse. Might be too late to fix this.”

Julie takes a moment to think. Or at least, to stop her head spinning. “You did say Tom agreed to turn himself in? That was his plan?”

“Right, but…”

“Then we let him. It’s the right thing to do. He killed a man, Gannon. We can’t condone that. We can’t be part of a cover-up. You have to let him go. It’s the right thing.”

Arcade’s brow furrows in dismay, but he nods. “And the Co-op?”

“Tom wasn’t the only one working on that. Westside is a strong community. They’ll make it without him.” She speaks with more confidence than she feels, but Arcade looks so despondent, she has to say something. “Maybe… we can run our own water pipeline. Get Bill’s help, get some other NCR folks on the project, give them a job. We _can_ fix this, Arcade. But we have to do it the right way.” Julie offers some semblance of a smile. Hopefully it’s encouraging. “I’ll write to Alvarez, see if she can spare someone to coordinate a new project. Might not be right away, but we’ll get the wheels turning.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’d say I know a letter-carrier, but…” Arcade cracks a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You liked him, didn’t you?” Julie says gently.

“No. Yes. For about twenty minutes, I suppose. I figured out pretty quick nothing was going to happen, but... I hoped he... well... I thought our priorities were at least similar. Turns out they aren’t.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Arcade shrugs, smiles, a little stronger this time. “ _Nihil novi sub sole._ Let’s get back at it, huh? I’ve wasted enough of our time for today. Matter of fact, I’d say I’ve wasted enough time for a month.”

“It’s good to have you back.” Julie rises. “But Arcade… if you ever need to talk, please don’t hesitate. You’re not wasting my time.”

“Thanks.” Arcade nods. “It’s... good to be back.”

“Up for something a little different?”

“Come again?”

Julie produces the letter. She’s filled in the necessary details and quantities, and signed her name at the bottom. “I need somebody to run this to the Garrets. We’re making a supply deal.”

Arcade’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t say.” He takes the letter and looks it over, with what looks suspiciously like a smirk. “Maybe there is something new under the sun after all.”

Julie manages a weak smile. “Don’t rub it in.”

 

“That about does it for the electricity.” Bill dusts his hands off on his stained trousers as he emerges from the eastern tower. His eyes are still shadows, his frame still thin, but there’s a sparkle of purpose and pride in his eyes that hasn’t been there since the pump. It’s so good to see. “Your wiring’s good. Generators are all runnin’ smooth. If that secondary switch goes out you just give me a hollar. I’ll get it fixed right quick.”

“I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’d done, Bill.” Julie feels an immense swell of pride and gratitute for Bill. They’re lucky— _she’s_ lucky to have such a friend. “You’re welcome to stick around, you know.”

“Oh, Julie, I do appreciate that.” Bill pauses, hands fidgeting for a moment. “Actually I did hope I might take my leave for a bit? Oh, not for long. But you see, I got into a habit of helpin’ Major Kieran down at the pantry, and I haven’t been through for a while. Thought I might stop in. See if she needs a hand.”

“Of course! You don’t have to ask permission to come and go.”

Bill blushes a little. “Oh I, I know. Didn’t want to seem ungrateful. You and the Major, you friends? Sounded as though you knew one another.”

“Well. Yes,” Julie says, after a moment. “Yes, I think we are. Speaking of, Bill—you mind waiting a few minutes to head out? I’d like to send a note with you for you to take to her, if you don’t mind.”

Bill’s smile is broader now. “Don’t mind one bit, Julie. You just let me know when you’ve got it ready.”

 

Up in her room, beneath the yellow glow of her desk lamp, Julie turns a pencil over and over in her finger and tries to think of what to say. She sets the pencil down and opens a new file on her terminal.

> Major Kieran,

And instead of the Major, she thinks of a dead Corporal. Nameless, disposed of. She thinks of Tom—in NCR custody, or on the run. Neither thought is comforting.

This is her fault.

She almost gives up right there. Thinking of what Arcade told her is making her feel ill, and the smothering heat of the tower isn’t helping. Her head throbs, and for a moment the dark wooden walls feel tighter, pressing in on all sides.

Breathe, Farkas.

She closes her eyes, inhales sharply.

Bill is waiting for her.

Julie opens her eyes, exhales, and types.

> I want to thank you in person for taking the time to set up a supply deal for us with the Garrets, but in the meantime please accept my written thanks

She backspaces up to the greeting.

> Major Kieran,
> 
> I wanted to thank you for setting up that supply deal with the Garrets. You were right, I should have gotten over myself and asked

Backspace.

> You were right, I should have asked. 

She taps a few more sentences. Backspaces. Tries again. Better. It’ll have to do. Bill’s waiting.

She saves the file and picks up her pencil to write out the final draft.

> _Major Kieran,_
> 
> _I wanted to thank you for setting up that supply deal with the Garrets. You were right; I should have asked. I appreciate you taking the time to help us out. If there’s anything we can do to help your work, let me know. You’re welcome at the Fort anytime._
> 
> _Julie Farkas_


End file.
